


Monstrumologist one-shots

by we_could_be_heroes



Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:12:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_could_be_heroes/pseuds/we_could_be_heroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1) Will Henry and Lilly friendship fic, vague Willinore in the background<br/>2) Warthrop and Will Henry travel to 2014 to play themselves in the movie. Gen.<br/>3) Warthrop teaches Will Henry how to ride a horse, but it ends in angst. Gen.<br/>4) Thirteen-year-old Lilly accompanies her father and brother on a visit to the Chanler household. Gen.<br/>5-10) Replies to the 30 Days Monstrumologist challenge on Tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Henry and Lilly friendship fic. Vague Willinore in the background.

"And how long are you planning to stay in Bellevue?" Lilly asked, smoothing down her skirt. They were sitting outside in the shade of blossoming apple trees, at Lilly’s cousin’s estate in upstate New York. Will and Warthrop had arrived there the previous day; right now, Warthrop was inside the Bates’ manor, discussing "important, administrative matters" with a select group of gentlemen while Will and Lilly had been tactfully sent outdoors, as if they were still children.

"However long it takes the doctor to persuade Chesterfield to preside the Society, I suppose," Will said, not meeting her eyes. He was not keen on discussing Von Helrung’s death with her - which, combined with Warthrop’s reluctance to fulfill the function, was the reason the Society needed a new President in the first place.

"Oh, I don’t think that will take much effort, he’s desperate for it." A twig fell into Lilly’s lap and she flicked it off. They were silent for several awkward moments, both uncertain on how to approach the other. The chirping of birds mingled with the shouts and yelps of women playing tennis nearby.

"Tennis - do you play?" Lilly asked, struck by inspiration.

"No, not really."

Will frowned in the direction of the jolly tennis players, gathering courage. “Lilly,” he forced himself to say, “I owe you an apology.”

She looked at him and for the first time since he had arrived, he saw a flicker of familiarity in her pretty blue eyes. Beneath the veneer of a collected young lady, she was still the capricious girl who had teased and challenged him all those years ago.

"Apology accepted," she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Won’t you even make me say what I’m apologizing for?" Will recalled the burning sensation in his cheek when Lilly had slapped him, putting a stop to his unwanted advances.

"No, what’s in the past is best left in the past. Best look forward to the future." She continued with a breezier air, well known to Will from all those times she would predict her achievements in the field of monstrumology and later, the marriage market: "Aren’t you excited? About the new century? Only seven years left … I will be twenty-four. The best age for a woman."

Will wasn’t quite sure what was so great about that particular number, hoping that when Lilly actually reached that age, she would remain relatively unencumbered by the harsher realities of life and hopefully would not be dead from childbirth and her potential children likewise alive and healthy. Aloud he said: “The new century doesn’t start until 1901, though. People often think 1900 is the beginning because the number changes, but, well, they’re wrong.”

"Is that so?" she asked, unimpressed. "You know, for someone who complains about him so much, you sound remarkably like Warthrop."

"I don’t sound like him," said Will, realizing he had just quoted the monstrumologist verbatim. "And I don’t complain."

"Oh really? Well, I’m glad the air cleaned between you two."

"Are you?" It was Will’s turn to wonder. "I thought you disliked him."

"Ah, poppycock."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Instead of responding, Lilly picked up a couple of daisies and started weaving them together. Will was fairly accustomed to not receiving a reply to his questions, but it was always due to them bouncing off the bubble of Warthrop’s preoccupation with a more interesting subject, usually some dead, carved-up creature. The experience of being obviously heard, but deliberately ignored was quite novel to him.

"Do you think it will survive, monstrumology?" Lilly asked, non-sequitur, as she inspected the intertwined daisies.

"Of course it will."

"How can you be sure? I heard there was a conference in Paris and they agreed it was in decline -"

"Yes, let’s all bow to the wisdom of the French," Will said, annoyed that reality seemed to contradict him.

"It was an  _international_  conference,” Lilly explained patiently.”Even Uncle Abram used to say monstrumology was doomed to become a memory of the past. And your Dr. Warthrop said it was in the ill-fated nature of the discipline to annihilate itself.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Lilly made something up, but her quotation of Warthrop sounded suspiciously spot-on. “When did he ever say that to you?”

"Well," Lilly braided another daisy into the chain, her fingers a bit clumsy, bending the slim green stalks too roughly, "he sent me a letter." She lifted her eyes to Will and seeing him gaping at her, she laughed and clarified, none too helpfully: "Last year."

"Why would he do that?"

"To offer his condolences - you realize my Uncle’s passing was a great loss, for both of us."

"I see," said Will, maintaining a sombre tone in respect for the dead, but then, unable to contain himself, he added: "Is that all?"

"No, as a matter of fact, no," Lilly said, the sadness in her blue eyes replaced by a sparkle. "It was a rather long letter and very nicely written, too - I mean the content. He mainly wanted to explain some things that happened in New York … and so on."

"Do you have it here with you?" Will demanded.

"No," Lilly’s cheeks dimpled when she smiled. " _Nice_  though it was, I don’t carry it everywhere with me. Besides, I wouldn’t show you my private correspondence anyway.”

"Lilly," Will could see she clearly didn’t comprehend the gravity of the situation. "I manage all the doctor’s letters."

"Well, this one must’ve slipped your attention," she said and twirled the half-finished daisy chain in her fingers. "Really, Will, there was nothing in the letter. You mustn’t be so jealous. Warthrop is all yours, but you should still allow him to write letters to other people." The daisy chain came apart in her hand and she threw it away.

Will had always been at a loss how to respond to teasing and this instance was no exception. Peals of rambunctious laughter were heard from the tennis court - Will glanced in its direction in irritation and then back at Lilly: “It just surprised me that he would write to you, that’s all.”

Lilly gave him a long look; her gaze traveled from his face to his neck. Will resisted the impulse to straighten his collar to make sure the purple love bite wasn’t visible.

"Will Henry! Where are you? We’re leaving!" a familiar voice called in the distance.

Grateful for the reprieve, Will jumped up from the ground and extended his hand to help Lilly on her feet. She let him draw her up, not letting go of his hand. “You can write to me, too. I miss your letters.”

"I will," he promised.

"It’s a goodbye, then," she said and hugged him. She leaned into the embrace and whispered: "You know, if you had told me that you loved me, I would’ve run away with you," 

"Pity that never occurred to me," Will rejoined when she stepped back.

She raised an eyebrow at him, her expression doubtful: “Pity.”


	2. Bethesda Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Warthrop and Will Henry travel into the future to save space and time continuum, or, take a brief walk in modern New York City. Cracky and gen.

"Please, do both of us a favor and don't ask any questions," Warthrop reminded Will as they walked up the street toward the laboratory, the city dark and unwelcoming in the twilight hours, both of them weary after the long journey. Will had to break into a trot at moments to keep up with the doctor's long strides. "And stop prancing about like a goat."

Finally, they arrived at their destination. Warthrop reached inside his coat to retrieve the letter and squinted at it in the faint light of the streetlamp, checking if they had the right address. He was seldom nervous, which only made it all the more obvious now. Will took off his hat - it was new, a replacement for the one his father had given him - and smoothed back his hair.

"Does he speak English?"

Warthrop gave him an irritated look. " _Of course_ he speaks English."

"I thought - you said - he was an immigrant."

"Hush. No questions, " Warthrop said as he opened the door and entered, Will slipping in behind him.

Inside, an elderly man, his clothes smudged by grease and his white hair messy, acknowledged their presence with a nod of recognition: "Ah, Dr. Warthrop, come right this way, he's expecting you."

He led them down a corridor and then through a curious sort of warehouse, all metal and glass and filled to bursting with a plethora of mysterious objects, some tiny, some huge, some buzzing, rumbling or clicking, all vaguely menacing in the dim light, like overlarge mechanical insects poised for flight. As they neared the back of the warehouse, they could see a slender figure of a man, bending over a whizzing apparatus, his back turned to them.

When they reached him, he continued tinkering with his invention, still not registering their presence. Their elderly escort cleaned his throat: "Mr. Tesla, the monstrumologist is here."

He turned to face them and Will saw that he was a good-looking man, about Warthrop's age. In spite of having the gaunt appearance of someone who routinely works too hard, his clothes were neat and his hair and mustache perfectly coiffed. His delicate face was vaguely reminiscent of a ferret, but a handsome ferret at that.

"Finally," he greeted them.

"We came as fast as we could ..." Warthrop began, but Tesla waved him silent.

"Yes, yes, well, let's get down to it. The matter is quite simple: as I outlined in my letter, it is imperative that you travel to the future to set certain things on their proper course."

He gestured toward a sturdy metal contraption which consisted of an oval-shaped platform surrounded by a labyrinth of tubes and wires. With pride, he announced: "This is the machine."

He went on to explain that his counterpart from the future - another version of himself made possible by puncturing the folds of time and space - had alerted him to an imminent threat of a universal cataclysm which, according to his calculations could be prevented by a minor alteration in the fabric of future events. All that needed to be done was to ensure the the circle of cause and consequence was completed by Warthrop and Will recreating their lives in a futuristic sort of theater play, recorded by photographic cameras.

Listening to Tesla's mad ramblings, Will threw an alarmed look at Warthrop, but the monstrumologist did not appear to share his concerns and instead nodded sagely at every major point Tesla made. When Tesla finished, he motioned for them to position themselves on the machine's platform.

As Will passed by Tesla, the inventor seized him by the shoulder and said something which did nothing to alleviate Will's concerns about his sanity: "You haven't seen any white pigeons on your way here, have you?" Tesla's gray eyes searched Will's face for the truth and Will had the fleeting thought that serving Warthrop may not be the worst fate he could have been cursed with after all.

"It's not going to electrocute us, is it?" Warthrop asked, bending his head to pass beneath the tangle of wires on the machine.

"We can try it on the boy first, if you like," Tesla suggested. They both looked at Will who stood there, clutching his little hat to his chest.

"No," said Warthrop after an agonizingly long while. "We'll go together."

There were no flashes of iridescent light, no falling through endlessly twisting wormholes - instead, one moment they were standing Tesla's New York laboratory in the year 1889 and the next, they seemed to still be in the same place, but somewhere else entirely: one hundred and twenty-five years in the future. Neither the time machine nor the dark warehouse were there any longer, instead, they found themselves inside what looked like a wax museum, among figurines covered in sparse multicolored pieces of textile and twisted into unnatural poses.

"Sir, excuse me - you can't go up there," a wide-eyed girl was looking up at them from below the platform.

"Oh, yes, sorry," Warthrop came to his senses and climbed down, dragging Will with him. Looking around, Will realized they were in fact in a huge clothing store, with rows upon rows of garments. Before he could even begin to examine the multitude of designs on display, Warthrop led him outside, past the girl who was now watching them with deep suspicion and through the sliding glass doors onto the streets of the future.

"See, not much has changed," Warthrop said at the sight of the impossibly tall skyscrapers, mirrored in one another, and the busy road crisscrossed by the bullet-shaped automobiles.

Once again in his life, Will could not believe what the monstrumologist was saying: "Are you serious? Everything's changed." He spun around, marveling at the technological progress.

"Will Henry, if something astounds you, at least do your surroundings the courtesy of keeping your mouth closed," Warthrop instructed him. He checked a slip of paper Tesla had given and set off down the street, Will once again stumbling alongside his long steps.

"Of course humanity wouldn't remain frozen in one spot, Will Henry. I'm surprised that as an apprentice to a scientist, you could ever entertain a thought as naive." Warthrop lectured him as they navigated their way through the crowds. After Will had calmed down from hearing Warthrop call him his _apprentice_ , he tried to prevent himself from any further jaw dropping and thus gave no more than a brief glance to the individual passers-by. Most of them were strangely underdressed, as if it had somehow become normal to leave the house in your underclothes or dress the same for a walk downtown as one would for working in the field. He remembered that Tesla had warned them not to interact with anyone and thought that was not likely since no one paid them absolutely any mind.

They came to a halt at a crosswalk where Warthrop followed the instructions on a yellow plaque and pushed a button. They waited defiantly for the light to change while other people streamed around them, dismissive of its authority.

"Look, they named an establishment after your favorite character from _Moby Dick_ ," Warthrop pointed across the street, to pass the long wait.

Will's vision was briefly blinded by the imaginary newspaper headline HE REMEMBERS MY FAVORITE CHARACTER, but then he forced himself to focus on scanning the store signs. "Where?"

"Behind the pink octopus," Warthrop said. Will indeed spotted the man dressed as a giant plush octopus waddling through the crowd, but that was all. "Oh, wait, there's one too," Warthrop indicated the green sign with a mermaid closer to them. "And there another. And also right behind us."

Pivoting around, they almost missed the short interval in which the figure of  the pedestrian flashed. Once safely on the other side, they continued their walk through the city whose face may have changed beyond recognition, but which remained, in its core, an easily navigable grid.

"Thirty-four, thirty-six," Warthrop read the building numbers. "Thirty-eight!" He stopped in the middle of the street. A man in a white suit came within an inch of colliding with him, but swung around at the last moment in a practiced maneuver with an angry hiss and a loathsome look.

"I still can't believe they can make pictures move," Will confessed to Warthrop as they approached the casting agency.

"Why? Does it surprise you that people continue to focus all their efforts on inventing new venues for wasting time?"

"But --- _how_?" He had posed that question, borne of innocent awe, to Warthrop many times before - the most recent instance took place at the sight of a telegraph machine. Neither then nor now did Warthrop deign it necessary to answer.

They entered the lobby of the building, Will unable to contain his fascination with another set of sliding doors, Warthrop conducting himself as if he crossed the threshold of the future every Wednesday. He approached the receptionist and told her why they came.

"Oh, alright, well, you're right on time, the audition will start in a minute. And you're already wearing a costume?" she asked, a bit taken aback. Judging by the fact she seemed to be dressed in a flowing glistening sack, Will thought it ironic that she would wonder about their 'costumes.' "And what's the name of your agent?"

Warthrop glanced at the note from Tesla: "Eleanor Boardman."

"U-huh, and um, what's your acting experience?"

"Well," Warthrop hesitated for the first time, "I played Laertes in Hamlet once."

The woman hung onto his lips for a while, expecting him to continue, but when he said nothing, she blinked and asked: "Here on Broadway?"

"...Yes." If anyone needed a proof of Warthrop's abysmal acting abilities, it was all contained in the blatantly disingenuous, constrained way in which he lied. Will couldn't imagine how they would ever be able to play out their adventures, but then, there was very little he could imagine when it came to moving pictures, which still seemed like a thing out of a Jules Verne novel to him.

Meanwhile, the woman pried on: "And when was that?"

"... Two-thousand," said Warthrop carefully, "eleven."

"I see," she said, staring into a luminescent rectangle for a moment. "Fine, you can go in room 319, the elevator is right over there. And, uh, perhaps your son can wait here with me?" She gave Will a quick once-over. "If he's used to being on his own for a bit?"

"I'm not his son," Will told her, suddenly annoyed by her obsequiousness. "I've also come to audition. For Will Henry."

"Oh, honey, but you are way too young for the part," the woman twisted her mouth in an exaggerated expression of regret.

"I'm twelve," he informed her darkly.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, in that case, let me put you down on the list, _sir_ , that audition doesn't happen till tomorrow."

Will spent the two-hour period that followed waiting in the lobby, fruitlessly wasting time he could have much better used exploring New York City of the future. But Warthrop had asked the receptionist to watch over his "rascally nephew" and she did so, shooting Will somewhat concerned glances as he leafed through magazines, looking at the future at least indirectly, and then attempted to get a drink from a tank of water in the corner.

"Well, they said they would call me," Warthrop told him when he finally emerged. "We'll have to look into how communication works here, Will Henry, since they never asked for any number."

They were almost out the door when the elevator opened and out clattered a good-looking woman with long black and yellow hair.

"Coffee run," she mumbled to the receptionist. She headed straight for them, the bracelets on her wrists jumping up and down.

"Listen, if you really want that part, why don't you give me a call," she said to Warthrop, leaning toward him as if in confidence, and slipped a card into his pocket.

Then she smiled down at Will, oblivious to his glare: "Oh, how cute, you look downright pitiful, with that hat and dirty face, what an authentic orphan you'd make."

When they finally escaped, they found themselves outside on the busy street, in the hub of human activity, but with no clear idea what to do or where to go.

"Well," Warthrop said, "I suppose we can go see if the Statue of Liberty is still standing. It didn't look very durable to me."

But just then, they saw a thin tall shape swiftly approaching them in zig-zag motions. It turned out to be a man on skates, just like the ones people used on ice. When he came even closer, they saw he was dressed in red skintight trousers held up by white suspenders, a checkered shirt and a dainty hat cocked to one side. When he stopped in front of them and removed the huge sunglasses that covered half his thin face, they realized it was Tesla - or his 21st century twin, to be precise.

"I'm glad I caught up with you," he said, breathless. "Come on, no time to lose." He swiveled around, slowing his speed to lazy slides for their benefit. As they made their way through the sea of pedestrians, he briefed them on the new development: "Looks like I've made a ... miscalculation." He was looking straight ahead, his handsome ferret face scrunched up: like Warthrop, he clearly disliked admitting his mistakes. "But don't worry, it's all repairable."

"What sort of miscalculation?" Warthrop asked.

"A huge-ass one," Tesla said, staring straight ahead as he morosely roller-skated down Fifth Avenue. "Wrong about everything. Got to send you back ASAP."

While Will was still frowning about the mental image of an overgrown donkey, Warthrop pressed on: "So this whole endeavor was in vain?"

"Weeell, nothing is ever in vain, is it, and hey, at least you guys had a chance to see the 21st century." He cut an elegant curve, one foot lifted above the ground, and glided into Central Park. "But yeah, I screwed up. Turns out you playing yourselves would be the _worst_ kind of spacetime-defining occurrence, not the best."

"Alright, let me get this set up," Tesla skated toward a bench and lowered himself on it. He took a slim rectangular object from his pocket and started running his finger all over its smooth dark surface.

A white pigeon flew down from the bronze wing of the Bethesda angel, perched next to Tesla and started preening its feathers. Tesla's face lit up and he turned to it, cooing: "I'm back, lovely, don't worry, I would never leave you."

Will and Warthrop exchanged a look of concern.

Meanwhile, Tesla returned to his previous occupation with the quizzical instrument, mumbling a sequence of numbers under his breath. "There," he looked up at them. "All ready."

"Oh, is _this_ the time machine?" Warthrop asked.

"Yeah, sure, I've minimized and digitized it, but it's as reliable as clockwork. Alright, off you go."

And as they stood there, the world around them changed again, effortlessly and instantly, so they did not register the moment of the transition, only its consequence. They were still in front of the Bethesda Fountain, but the reality around them had unmistakably changed back into the eve of the 19th century, their excursion to the future reduced to an already fading memory, leaving Will wonder whether it had ever happened at all. 


	3. Saddle Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen. Will Henry lacks one essential skill - horseback riding. For some reason I couldn't stop there and there is angst and animal death at the end.

"Take the horse and ride down to town to get it!" Warthrop snapped at me when I told him there was not a single drop of ethanol left in the house. A long, shiny body of a sizable salamander was lying on the dissection table in front of the monstrumologist, its torso bisected vertically, the skin stretched open and pinned down. The ethanol was needed for the solution to preserve the parasite Warthrop had just extracted from the creature's belly and was now still clasping with the forceps. It was only the fourth Friday that I had been with him.

"But - I -" I stammered, my eyes fixed on the white, almost translucent form of the parasite. Out of its intestinal feeding ground, it looked helpless and strangely benign - certainly much more so than the man holding it.

"Ah, what excuse to slack do you have now? Does riding make you nauseous, too, Will Henry?"

"No, sir, it doesn't - that is, I'm not sure what it does to me."

Warthrop sighed and carefully laid the specimen inside a metal bowl. The truth was, although I had sat on a horse before, I never had a chance to be properly trained how to ride and certainly did not feel up to the challenge of saddling up Balthazar, the doctor's high-spirited stallion.

"Then run," he shrugged after I had explained my predicament.

"Run, sir?"

"You still have your legs, don't you? Well, time to make a good use of them."

Warthrop hated stalling in his work and I would soon learn to avoid at all cost being a cause of it. I fixed my hat to sit firmly on my head and made up the stairs and out of the basement, only to hear him say behind me: "And remind me to take care of your lack of skill later, riding is essential for a boy in your position."

He kept his promise.

Several days into the future, I found myself astride Lydia, an old carriage horse elevated to the status of a riding horse and bearing the unusual burden on her back with heavy-lidded apathy.

"Heels down and chin up!" Warthrop shouted at me. I steered the mare around him in a circle, through the overgrown, unkempt grass behind the house. "Now - trot!"

I pressed my heels into Lydia's flanks, but I might as well have sent her a wire asking to speed up - neck stiff and hooves dragging, she continued at her own pace. I clucked at her and whispered: "Lydia, gee up!" But it only resulted in the mare turning her ears back toward me, registering the command and ostensibly choosing to ignore it.

"Is this your idea of trot? And stop kicking that poor horse!" Warthrop reprimanded me and then, perhaps taking pity on both of the creatures struggling in front of him, he gave Lydia the same command I did. To my shame, however, his met with a different response: the old mare lifted her head and set off in a slow, but steady trot.

I bit my lip in concentration as I bounced up and down the saddle, trying and failing to adjust to the rhythm of the gait.

"For God's sake, Will Henry, are you a boy or a sack of potatoes? You have to follow her motions, not go against them! Wrong! That's all wrong!"

I had only lived with the monstrumologist for several weeks then, but I had already got used to criticism raining on my head, so I tried to tune out the scorn and focus on the actual advice contained in his words. Follow the horse's motions - but how, if they were so unnatural? So deep was my concentration that I did not realize Lydia had put quite a distance between us and Warthrop.

"Turn her head!" I heard the doctor yell from behind and so I did, feeling quite proud of guiding Lydia back around without allowing her to slow down. We trotted back toward Warthrop, who was was now waiting for us with his hands on his hips. Just when we came so close that I could discern the disapproving frown on his face, a miracle happened. Suddenly, I felt as if I was really sitting in the saddle for the first time and instead of being uncomfortably jostled with Lydia's every step, I became one with her fluid motions.

"Yes! Now you're doing it right!" Warthrop took immediate note of my progress. "This is exactly how it's supposed to look! Remember this and -- ah, and we're back. Wrong again."

We continued the exercise for a while, I again failing more often than succeeding to follow Warthrop's barked instructions. But the brief moment of elation when I had got it just right gave me confidence to persevere throughout and even enjoy the undivided attention the monstrumologist was, perhaps for the first time ever, giving me. And, to everyone's surprise, after some time into the lesson, Lydia even consented to canter!

Back at the stables, as I was massaging the mare's sweaty flanks with a wisp of straw, Warthrop approached me: "So, do you still consider riding to be such an insurmountable problem to you?"

"It's still a problem, sir," I answered truthfully. "But I think I might surmount it."

"Yes," he said, patting Lydia's neck. "I think so, too."

 

*

 

There are moments in our lives that seem to be joined across time by an invisible string of fate, so that though years apart, they seem to happen right after one another. So it happened that I vividly recalled the monstrumologist standing in the same spot I was in now - his hand on the old carriage mare's neck and his eyes on me, fixing me with a rare look of reassurance.

As things stood now, Lydia was still in her stall, only now I would have had to crouch down to pat her. I harbored no great desire to do so as her fur was patched and matted, her nostrils leaking and her eyes glazed over. The old horse was dying.

"I think Lydia's dying," I announced to Warthrop's back - he was in the library, bent over an ancient tome on aberrant amphibians.

These were the first words I had spoken to him in over three days and it took him several heartbeats to take note of them: "Who the hell is Lydia?"

Once the matter of Lydia's identity was resolved, we found ourselves holding a reluctant vigil to the dying horse. I sat down next to Lydia's head while Warthrop hovered above us. "Well, compared to most driving horses, hers had been a downright happy life," he said at the sight of the emaciated animal. "Now that I think of it, she must be close to twenty five!"

I overcame my slight disgust at Lydia's encrusted eyes and reached out to stroke her mane. She had spent the majority of her life with her head tied to an iron ring in a stall barely big enough for her to lie down, only leaving the perpetually dark stable when harnessed in front of a carriage.

Or, I recalled, to serve as a training horse for certain young assistant monstrumologists - it was on Lydia's back after all, that I, in that brief moment of epiphany, caught a glimpse of the thrill of riding for the first time.

"She never had to work too hard and she always had all the hay she could want. And perhaps oats if this is something you gave her -"

He paused when he noticed my tears. For a while the only sound in the stable were Lydia's labored breaths. "Come on now," he touched my shoulder. "It's just a horse."

"I know," I said, shaking off his hand, "I just remembered something."

 


	4. A Family Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen-year-old Lilly accompanies her father and brother on a visit to the Chanler household. Gen.

The whole ride in the carriage was unbearable. It was high summer, the air hot and humid and still, and Reggie would not stop kicking her shins. Lilly suppressed the urge to kick him back or pinch his ear - a favorite trick of hers as Reggie had become so conditioned by it that a flicker of fear passed in his eyes whenever her hand appeared anywhere in the vicinity of his head, even if it was just to comb his hair. She could no longer allow herself such childishness, however. She was a young lady now, having just turned thirteen and received not one, but three new dresses from Bloomingdale's. Although she complained to her mother that the the skirt was too short for her - still not the adult ankle-length - she did rejoice in her new possessions and tried the dresses on repeatedly.

For today's special occasion, she chose the blue one.

Finally, they arrived at the Chanler residence. As she stepped out of the carriage after her father and brother, Lilly hastily wiped the sweat off her face, angry at the persistent sunlight.

"Lilly! Don't dawdle," Mr. Bates called to her and she hurried to his side. Naturally, Reggie had been allowed to misbehave throughout the whole ride without a word from their father whereas she was reprimanded for no reason at the first opportunity! But she would not let the injustice mar the day she had been looking forward to for so long, even preparing for it in the darkness of her bedroom, practicing conversations and learning to control her facial expressions -

But then they were inside the parlor and her heart fell: she wasn't there. It was only Dr. Chanler who stepped forward to welcome them, a bit too wide a grin on his face: "Ah, Mr. Bates, as punctual as a clock. Even in the worst traffic! If your management of finance is only half as efficient as that of your time, I could not wish for a better partner."

They exchanged their pleasantries and then turned to look at Lilly and Reggie.

"I brought them with me," said Mr. Bates apologetically, "I was hoping Mrs. Chanler might -"

"She's not feeling well today, unfortunately," Chanler said and raised his hand to stop Mr. Bates from offering the usual sympathies. "Actually, I was thinking whether I might first show you a most curious object I brought back with me from my expedition to the Andes? Very valuable too, of course. Just so you know your investment will not be in vain. " He laughed at Mr. Bates, then turned to Reggie and awkwardly patted his head. To her horror, Lilly saw her brother's hair was almost dripping with grease: clearly he had once again successfully performed the trick of loudly splashing water behind locked doors, creating the illusion other parts of his body besides his fingers came in touch with it. "Something that might perhaps appeal to this young gentleman?" Chanler seemed to have either ignored the grease or thought it was on purpose. Then he looked at Lilly. "The young lady, however -"

"She can wait for us here." Unlike her great-uncle, Lilly's father refused to indulge even the minutest interest in monstrumology on her part. "Right, Lilly? Look through some catalogs."

And then they left her alone, snubbed and disappointed, only their voices still echoing down the long hallway ("Andes, is it? Isn't that where that colleague of yours had already made that spectacular discovery? How long has it been? Von Helrung would not stop ranting about it, Pellinore this, Pellinore that-" "The Andes are a big place, Mr. Bates, just because I wasn't there first doesn't mean they have nothing else to offer...")

Lilly sighed and went to look at what titles the Chanlers' bookcase held. She picked up a copy of _Looking Backward_ and retreated into an armchair to read. In spite of her irritation, she became rather intrigued by the story of a man sleeping his way all the way into the year 2000, so deeply in fact, that she did not hear the door behind her open and close.

"I really enjoyed this one," said Muriel Chanler, startling Lilly into a small jump. Muriel smiled and rustled her way across the room to seat herself in an armchair opposite Lilly's. She was a bit pale and drawn, but paleness was fashionable that summer and Lilly thought the mistress of the house looked quite striking in her plain gray dress, with her auburn hair let down and falling over her shoulders.

"Yes, I like it too! It is quite fascinating, the idea, isn't it!" Lilly beamed at Muriel, rejoiced to be meeting with her after all. "My father would not buy it for me, though. He says it's too difficult and too socialist for me and I wouldn't understand it anyway. But in my opinion, one must educate oneself using a, a, a _rich_ _variety_ of sources, no matter what they, well, yes."

"I take it your father was kidnapped by my husband?" Muriel asked.

"Yes," Lilly theatrically rolled her eyes and then inwardly chastised herself for it - this was one of the expressions she had told herself to limit. "They went to look at some _object_ from the Andes, they have been gone for _ages_."

"And left you here all alone? Mr. Chanler ought to be taught some manners. But don't worry," she winked confidentially, her wan countenance momentarily transformed, "you're not missing anything. It's just some old skeleton."

"Well ..." Lilly wondered whether it was polite to disagree with a hostess so early on, but then opted for honesty. She had often daydreamed about Muriel becoming her confidante, so how ironic would it be if she lied to her? "I would have liked to see it," she admitted.

"Really? Why?"

"I think it's so _exciting_ what Dr. Chanler does. I would give anything to be one day able to explore the world and uncover its secrets ... "

"Well I think that's very naive of you," said Muriel with uncharacteristic harshness. "How can we explore the world if we barely know ourselves? And there are no exciting secrets, just a bunch of bones and dust and the occasional flying fish or whatever other nonsense some drunken sailor spots somewhere on the other side of the globe!" Muriel's color rose a bit, her emerald eyes glinted. Then she paused and shook her head: "But what do I know about anything. You should pursue your dream, by all means."

Though somewhat daunted by Muriel's temper, Lilly still could not help but admire how the woman could remain so effortlessly beautiful at any moment. Out of the five different photographs Lilly had taken a week ago, she only looked reasonably lady-like in one; in the others she looked like something Adolphus Ainsworth might keep under a double-lock.

"What a pretty dress," Muriel changed the topic after a period of silence.

"Oh, thank you."

"You know, when I was young I used to have to have every dress tailored, there weren't very many department stores."

"Oh, but you're still young. You're very beautiful."

Muriel continued without taking much note of the compliment; perhaps she heard it so frequently it had lost all meaning. "I used to hate when I had to stand still like a statue, the dressmaker sticking pins all over me. I got pricked so many times! Oh, how I hated my mother for making me endure that. I even promised myself that when _I_   have a daughter, I will never force her into such ridiculousness."

"But you don't have any children." Once again in her life, Lilly's mouth got ahead of her brain.

"Well, you don't mince your words, do you, Miss Bates?" Muriel asked with an inscrutable, but not entirely unkind look.

Lilly was still drowning in embarrassment when the door on the other side of the parlor opened and the men returned. Reggie looked miserable, his face white as chalk, and Dr. Chanler mildly amused. Mr. Bates appeared to be sharing his daughter's feeling of embarrassment.

"He licked it," Chanler explained. "Just came up to the bone - I thought he was just taking a closer look, like a normal person - but suddenly his tongue was out and well, that was that. Nothing we could do."

"Heavens, will he be alright?" Muriel bent down to the afflicted boy. "Let me see your tongue, dear." Reggie pursed his lips closed even more tightly.

"Don't worry, we already washed out his mouth," Chanler told his wife. "Just as a precaution. Of course, Mr. Bates counted on you looking after the children, so-"

"I am dreadfully sorry," Mr. Bates interrupted him, "this has never happened before, I -"

"Well, I told you he does this," Lilly interrupted her father. She turned to the Chanlers, her eyes flicking between both of their annoyed faces. "He is going through this phase where he licks things: the bedpost, the wall, the plants - the _poisonous_ plants I might add -"

"That's enough, Lillian."

But then Reggie interrupted them all with a constrained sound of pure anguish and vomited all over the Chanlers' ornate Persian carpet.

 


	5. The Midnight Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early weeks of Will's stay with him, Warthrop comes to ask Will a question. Gen.

I was drifting off into an uneasy sleep, dark and dreary images fluttering inside my closed eyelids, when there was a shuffle and a creak and I was no longer alone in my little room. An imperative of duty pulled on my weary limbs and like a puppet on strings, I lifted my body from the bed.

“No, lie down, it’s nothing this time,” said Warthrop. The light of the kerosene lamp illuminated a circle around him; he looked pale, almost ghostly, but also calm, his usual intensity subdued.

He crossed the distance to my bed, bending his head away from the wooden beams.

“So, what are your thoughts so far?” He asked as if he were continuining a previous conversation. He stood above my bed with his lamp, like a nurse checking on a patient.

“My thoughts, sir?” I rubbed my eyes, shielding them from the light and his searching gaze. While I had already come to deplore the long periods when he would treat my existence with complete indifference, I did not rejoice in being the center of his attention either, as it seldom earned me words of praise.

“Yes, your thoughts.”

“I—”

“Your thoughts about all of this, Will Henry.”

To this day, I wonder whether he had realized then how vague, nigh incomprehensible most of what he said had seemed to a child. While on the one hand he demanded complete precision when it came to science – just the day before he had reprimanded me for confusing pedicles with laminae when describing the spine of a cetacean – when it came to other matters, he tested my powers of inference to their limit. And often far above it since it appeared he expected me to read his mind.

“Well, do you think this is something you can do?”

At that time, I had not viewed my predicament as a choice. Staying with the monstrumologist was a decision that had been made _for_ me and all I could do was learn to live with it - learn to live with him. So that was what I did, in every waking hour, whether I was assisting Warthrop with a dissection in the laboratory or sweeping the floor. My knee-jerk reaction whenever Warthrop asked me anything was instant agreement – but something, perhaps the earnest tone of his voice, made me speak honestly.

“I don’t think I have choice, sir.”

“There’s always choice. Or so they say,” he smiled wryly. “But I know as well as anyone that sometimes, there really isn’t one. And now you know too. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you answer my question, then? Remember, your father did make a choice and look at what fate it brought him. Who knows what might be in store for you, who doesn’t even have one?”

I cannot say whether it was my allegiance to the legacy of my father or to the man who had insisted on taking me in that made me answer in the way I did, but all those years ago, it was the only answer I could give and I would not change it if I could.

“I don’t know if I can do this, sir, but I will try.”


	6. The Star-Crossed Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack pairing silliness.

“So what if it’s unconventional? So what if it’s against the rules? I don’t care about your rules!”

“They are not “my” rules, Will Henry, they are everyone’s rules. The rules of our society.”

“I don’t care about society!”

“Think about her reputation!”

“Nothing you can say can stop me! I have made my decision.”

“William, please, stop and be reasonable. Think about what you’re doing.”

“She is the only one who can make me happy!”

“ _She_ is happily married.”

“Oh, what do you know about happiness?”

“I know enough.”

“You know nothing.”

“She could be your grandmother.”

“SHE IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.”

“Fine! If you love her so much, what’s her first name?”

“… Lucinda.”

“You just made that up!”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“I never should have told you! I should have known you’d try and stop me!”

“Will Henry, eloping with Mrs. Flanagan isn’t the answer. This is the last time I’ve saved you from yourself.”

“…You keep saying that.”


	7. The One Where They're All OOC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is out-of-character silliness AU.

I couldn’t care less about the monstrumologist’s approval so I only did the bare minimum of the work he assigned me, cutting myself a generous slack whenever he didn’t pay attention. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen very often as he had taken to fussing over me at every possible moment, asking me if I needed anything, if I was happy and content, even insisting on holding excruciatingly tiresome sessions where we discussed how I was coping with my parents’ death. I couldn’t wait for a window of opportunity that would allow me to slip away and leave him forever. I would miss slicing up monsters and sinking my arms up to my elbows in their viscera, but still, I valued independence above all. Luckily, the anthropophagi business soon came along.

A quiet, reserved and mild-mannered man named Kearns came all the way from England to help us take care of it. Warthrop had sworn it would be the last case of his career, seeing as monstrumology seemed to engender only tragedy and suffering, which was something he wanted to avoid at all cost. “We mustn’t lose ourselves in our vocations, Will Henry,” he told me over a nice cup of hot chocolate. “Seeking immortality through science is a fool’s errand. We should live in the moment and cherish the little things in life. Have a nice chat with friends, spend a day in the sunlight, make someone’s day by letting them beat you at chess …”

Finally, the day of the anthropophagi hunt arrived. Warthrop had already dutifully warned every inhabitant of our town of the danger lurking inside his family’s tomb, so everyone was safe. Those few who did not heed the warning were taken care of by Kearns, who visited every home, distributing home-baked pastry, kind words, and a sizable amount of cash. The poorest of the poor tugged at his gentle heartstrings the most and he spent an extra time with them, assuring them they were still worthy members of the society.

Although every adult person in my vicinity begged me to stay home and not put myself in needless danger, I still joined the hunting party - mainly for the laughs, I suppose.

And then we were inside the lair. _This might be my chance to escape from the man whose face I can’t wait to forget,_ I thought to myself. Seizing the moment, I set off running down the dark corridor, toward freedom. But my foot slipped and I fell straight into the middle of the pack of the seething beasts. “Hold on, brave little one, I’m coming!” cried Kearns and heroically jumped after me as Warthrop watched on, rather unconcerned. Kearns threw himself between me and the beast and would’ve killed it, had not the strangest thing happened. The horrible fangs parted, saliva dripping all over the anthropophagus’s legs - and then, the creature spoke: “Please, don’t hurt us. We just want to be friends.”

"Your gastrointestinal tract is adapted to human-only food!" shouted Warthrop from above.

"We believe," declared the anthropophagus, "that our love and respect for human culture can help us go fully vegan." And he was right. Society opened up to the anthropophagi, welcoming them in their midst. If humanity was ever ready to embrace diversity and grant every being equal respect, it was at the end of the 19th century after all. The anthropophagus who first addressed us even went so far as to get ordained as a minister so he could officiate Warthrop’s wedding.

The monstrumologist married a beautiful woman named Muriel after she had arrived at his doorstep one day to apologize for some traumatic event in their past (“I’ll forgive you if you forgive me,” said Warthrop reasonably. “You know I’m not one to obsess about things.”) I did not enjoy the wedding in the least, I’m afraid to say, due to the fact that an old cantankerous man, Von Helrung, was in attendance. He was quite infamous for his hatred toward everyone, especially children, especially orphans.

As time went by, I gave up my plans to ever leave the monstrumologist, having taken a page out of the anthropophagi’s book and growing to love and respect him as a laudable parental figure.


	8. The Unsuccessful Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Warthrop return home from a failed hunt; they have sex in a cornfield. M/M.

My heart was still beating all the way up in my throat; it had really been a close call. I had gotten used to the thrill of danger, to the quickening of breath and the sharpening of senses, to the familiar tingling of skin. It was a balmy August night and we were walking back to our horses, down the well-trodden path between the woods and the cornfield, our hunt unsuccessful, but we - still alive.

I wasn’t all that surprised when he grabbed my hand, his fingers closing firmly over mine, and pulled me into his embrace. I yielded quickly, my already highly-strung body responding to the familiar call. I still held onto the field bag, though, loath to drop it into the mud. Just as I tilted my head back to let his lips travel from my mouth to my neck, we heard laughter and voices in the distance. The village wasn’t too far and it was still before midnight.

I stepped back, laughing softly, but he didn’t let go. “Come,” he dragged me toward the cornfield. The plants were high, their tassels reaching above our heads. They were spaced apart just far enough for us to  pass between them, their blades sliding around our forearms, strong and sharp. When we finally stopped, it was as if we had traveled into a world of its own; above, only the deep dark blue of the summer night sky; all around us, the bizarre shapes of the overgrown plants, and everywhere: silence.

The razor-sharp touch of the stiff corn blades was quite novel to me, the scrape of his stubble against mine, on the contrary, well-known and intimate. The fabric of his shirt clung to him, his skin hot and slick with sweat. I felt my heart beat loudly and his too. I thought that it was only in these brief moments that one was truly alive; everything else, all those long empty hours, only aftermath or preparation. My skin tingled again, my whole body re-awakening

I bit his lip too hard and could taste a hint of blood. I loosened into the motions, and after a while, I became aware of other perceptions besides his touch and his scent. It was a hot night, but a fresh breeze was beginning to rise. It suddenly seemed very strange to me that this other being would be here with me, just the two of us very alive and very human, in the middle of this strange, still forest that would cut your hands if your tried to pass through it too fast. A ripple of weakness ran through my knees and my mind was at once very aware and blissfully vacant. I lowered myself to my knees - later I would find two identical stains on each trouser leg from the wet soil.

"You know, you could’ve just dropped the field bag, it’s not made of porcelain," Warthrop said and I realized I had somehow kept clutching it the whole time. We made our way back through the corn field, through its swishing blades.


	9. The Fall of the Roman Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Pellinore at a boarding school in England. Gen.

"You’re supposed to bring your own book!" The tall boy with freckles said. Then, with an exaggerated look of his exasperation, he added: "How else will you learn anything?"

"Oh, I thought … we were supposed to leave the textbooks at the dormitory and only use them for homework."

“ _Oh, I thought_ ,” Freckles imitated, earning himself a guffaw from the rest of the boys. “You weren’t asked to think, you were asked to read the instructions!”

The sentence made no sense and would have been easy to turn back on its speaker, but instead of doing just that, some unknowable force of deference made Pellinore reply in a strained tone: “Instructions?”

"Yes, _instructions_ ,” a boy who strongly resembled an apprehensive marmot decided to join in. He sputtered the words, too eager to be able to enunciate properly, but that did not stop him from continuing: “You didn’t get them? About twenty pages, bound together, with the school motto! _Scientia impresius,_ er, _imperius et dominus,_ I mean _deus-_ ”

Freckles gave Marmot a disgusted glance. Marmot swallowed the rest of his jumbled Latin and resumed his default state of popped eyes and pursed lips. Unfortunately for Pellinore, however, it was still him who occupied the unwanted spotlight.

"Lucky you," Freckles said to Pellinore and let the words hover in the air for a while. The other boys turned their pale faces to him in anticipation. "Lucky you. I happen to have an extra book which I could lend you. Just so you don’t make a complete embarrassment out of yourself in your very first class."

"Um, alright?" Pellinore answered hesitantly.

"There you go, then," Freckles produced a thick volume out of his bag. He kept his hold on it a second too long, adding: "Who knows? You might not even need it. Best keep it in your bag unless the teacher says otherwise."

Pellinore nodded, and even held out his bag open so Freckles could place the book inside. Most of the boys’ expressions were now a study in bafflement, manifested by either an open mouth or a blank stare. Their confusion was not meant to be resolved yet, however, as the start of the lesson forced them to disperse.

"Take out your _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ now,” the master announced in the dead silence of the classroom some time into his lecture. “And read chapter 15 part 9 on The Progress of the Christian Religion.”

As all the boys leaned down to search for the right book, so did Pellinore, and, placing the thick volume on the desk in front of him, he opened it at random and went very still and very red. Whatever this particular text was concerned with, it was certainly not ancient history.

It was too late to hide the book now, too late to snap it closed without drawing attention, too late for everything. The master would soon pass by the desk he shared with another pupil and all he could do was try and slowly, calmy turn to another page, hoping it would _not,_ for a change, be illustrated.

"Hrmph!" The boy next to him snorted and stage-whispered: "What _is_ that?”

And so it happened that on his first day of school in a country far away from home, Pellinore Warthrop was forced to explain how he came into the possession of the latest and shockingly little censored book on anatomy - a riveting read, but certainly not on the school’s curriculum.

He had enough sense in him to avoid any mention of Freckles, but as he knelt in the corner facing the wall and surreptitiously rubbed his palms which burned from their encounter with a cane, he thought to himself that his exile in England might prove even more challenging than he had ever imagined.


	10. Favorite Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will asks Warthrop what his favorite monster is. Gen.

"Even if you were, hypothetically, to write about my work, how would you even begin? Or better yet, what would you omit and what would you include? Most of my work wearisome and repetitive and quite incomprehensible to anyone without an insider’s knowledge. I cannot even begin to imagine how you would extract a story from that and I don’t _want_ to imagine how far from the truth you would no doubt stray …”

Though Warthrop was slowly warming up to my proposition of writing down our adventures, it was now my turn to become increasingly displeased by my own idea, all because of Warthrop’s constant inquiries, remarks, and even threats pertaining to the text of which not single work had yet been written. To soothe Warthrop’s apparent desire to control every drop of ink that might touch a page in my notebook, I decided to try and ensnare him in an illusion that I would let him decide what exactly I was to write about.

"Why don’t you think about three of your favorites and I’ll outline something about them?"

"Three of my favorite what?"

"Monsters," I said and immediately regretted it.

"Will Henry, why do you always, when it it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope for you after all, have to go and demonstrate that all those years of my care and guidance have indeed fallen on barren ground? I don’t have favorite monsters. I am engaged in a _strict_ _scientific process,_ not running a circus sideshow.”

It would have been wisest to back down and concede he was, once again, right, but I didn’t. Disregarding the same old litany about my inadequacies, I told him that seeing as I’ve been engaged in the same “strict scientific process” right alongside him for years, I did recall some cases more fondly than others. “The vampire bear in New Zealand?” I suggested. “You can’t deny that was a great one. Clean and simple. Easy to find, relatively easy to capture, easy to categorize.”

"And since when has "easy" been a mark of a good story?"

"Well, of course I would add some twists and hardships, but that’s beside the point now. The point is that if I, with my limited mental capacities, am capable of picking a favorite, then so are you."

I did not receive a reply immediately, but in time, it came.

"The anthropophagi," Warthrop said one morning, looking up from the newspaper.

"But they were horrible!" I said, once I caught on to what he was talking about. "And they were out of control! Not to mention the whole horrible business with Captain Varner and your father’s insane eugenics project-"

"You asked and I gave you an honest answer. Out of all the aberrant creatures I’ve had the privilege to encounter, the anthropophagus was the most evolved, the most flawlessly adapted, the most fascinating. Besides, it would make for one enthralling story."

And I had to concede that in that regard, he was right.


End file.
